


The Great Divide

by boneyaard



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: pre-horcrux
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-24 02:27:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13801443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boneyaard/pseuds/boneyaard
Summary: The bombs begin to fall on London in the humid summer of 1941. Before the Horcruxes, before the realization of his infamous ancestor, all Tom Riddle has is his wits and his skill. He has choices to make.





	1. The Blitz

A distant scream and a terrible thud woke Tom in the darkness of his bedroom. Heavy curtains were drawn tight against the tall windows beside his head. The room was tepid, the bleak tile of the walls holding onto the mercilessly humid July air. Tom blinked in the pitch darkness, the scratchy heaviness of the wool blankets suffocating him. He quickly extracted himself from their vice grip, his plain cotton shirt sticking to his skin. In the distance, he heard another howling scream, and an earth shattering crash, closer this time. 

The bombs were falling.

Distantly, he heard the other children begin to fuss and cry as the bombs awoke them. He heard sudden clicking as the girls working at the orphanage came running to the nursery, down the hall from Tom’s bedroom to answer to the growing cries from the babies. 

Tom threw his covers off and stood from his bed, his bare feet hitting the moist tile floor. As he stood, another screaming bomb seemed to tear through the sky and land with so loud a crash that the orphanage shook. Tom balanced himself, seeing the reddish flames of the place where it had hit dimly flickering through the heavy curtains of his room. 

He padded quickly over to his closet, where he hid his trunk and his Hogwarts things, and retrieved his Yew wand from the top shelf. If the Muggles were going to bomb themselves to smithereens, he was not going to be a victim. The wails of the other children had grown to a crescendo after this latest bomb. He could hear the matron, Mrs. Cole, shrilly giving out orders as the evacuation process began, hearing her boots clicking down the hallway. Suddenly, he heard the doorknob opening to his room and he hastily shoved his wand into the waistband of his pants, underneath his shirt. 

Mrs.Cole’s face appeared in the darkness, holding a candle, her thin greying hair sticking to her forehead and her eyes wide. 

“Tom?” she called, laying eyes on him standing in the middle of the floor, “Come on, we have to get to the shelter...” 

He nodded at her, and followed her out of the room. He followed her as she rushed to the nursery, passing other rooms with girls helping the children quickly into their shoes. He knew what she was going to say before she said it. 

“Tom, we have too many babies for us all to carry. You and John, Mary and Lizzy will have to take one each.” 

He didn’t reply, but met the other older children in the room. Mary, a thirteen year old girl with lank black hair, stood trembling. Another scream and a blast whirled outside and landed so close to them that the window rattled. Lizzy screamed, covering her head. 

“Come on!” Mrs. Cole called, rushing them, “there’s four babies that haven’t been taken yet!” 

Tom rushed to the back of the room near the window where a newborn was squalling throatily. Just as he reached the window, the screech of a bomb sounded off, horrifyingly close to them. The sound of the plane’s engine rattled his head. He knew it was going to hit them. He threw himself down onto the floor just as the bomb exploded outside of the window. The glass blasted inwards, shattering and flying into the room. The other children and Mrs. Cole screamed. 

After the world righted itself, Tom stood shakily to his feet and looked into the crib by the shattered window. Inside, the newborn had stopped crying. Large glass shards pierced the bedding and the infant’s tiny body. It’s eyes were open wide, reflecting the fire that was beginning to rage outside from the impact of the bomb. He turned away to where the other children clambered with screaming babies towards the door. Mrs. Cole strode forward and grabbed Tom’s collar, dragging him forward. 

“Come on, come on,” she urged, but he could hear the catch in her voice as her eyes swept over the baby by the window. 

He tripped over his feet as she pulled him forward and pushed him bodily through the door before her. 

“Follow the others, I’m going to make sure everyone’s gone!” she shouted after him. Tom didn’t need telling twice. His bare feet pounded the tile floor as he ran to catch up to Mary, Lizzie and John, who were rushing down the staircase, babies in their arms. Lizzie was younger than them, about eight years old, and the baby was squirming, slowing her down. Tom snatched the baby out of her hands and edged her forward. 

“Go! Keep going!” he commanded her, pressing the squirming, screaming infant to his chest with one arm and pushing the little girl ahead of him between her shoulder blades. Her nightgown was smudged with ash and her feet were bleeding from the broken glass. His own were sliced, his dark hair wet with sweat. The little girl was gasping for breath as she tried to keep up with them. They made it out of the orphanage, through a side door in the kitchen. Across the large muddy yard, the entrance to the underground bomb shelter that had been haphazardly set up was open with one of the matron girls screaming at them. 

As they ran across the yard, Tom heard the drone of a plane engine above them, so close that it was as though its belly would scrape their heads. He heard the mechanical thunk as a bomb was let go. 

Tom stopped dead in his tracks as the bomb tore screaming through the air, down towards them. 

He thought quickly. He pulled the little girl, Lizzie by the arm, off balancing her so she fell backwards to the ground. He dropped the infant down on her belly and brandished his wand from his waistband, throwing himself bodily over the two children. He had no idea if this would work, but if he didn’t try, he would die a pitiful death among the filthy swaths of a foolish Muggle conflict. He refused that to be his legacy. 

He had read, in his leisure time at Hogwarts, a spell which would create a bubble-like shield around the caster that would neutralize anything that hit it. He remembered the incantation, and brandishing his wand upwards, muttered it. 

“Neutroclipus!” 

His world went black.


	2. The Unexpected Visitor

When he awoke, he was lying on his back. The acrid smell of fire burnt his nostrils, and he blearily opened his eyes. Clutched in his filthy hand was his wand. He quickly sat up, his head swimming, and shoved it into his waistband to hide it. He looked around and found himself in the scorched grass. Ahead of him, the prone form of the little girl Lizzy and the baby she’d been carrying lie. The baby was screaming and kicking. Lizzy looked pale, but when he limped over to her, he could tell she was still breathing. It was daytime. The sky was a pale blue, clouds drifting lazily by, completely unfazed by the rubble and death below them. 

They’d survived, he noted dimly, his ears ringing painfully. 

He looked over to where the bomb shelter was, and noticed it was empty. He turned towards the road and saw the brick wall surrounding the orphanage was broken and had fallen into the street. Mrs. Cole’s face was blackened with soot, and her face was cut. He could vaguely hear her voice calling orders to the crying children and matron girls around her, who looked filthy and terrified, but alive. She turned and saw Tom standing in the lawn and looked as though she’d seen a ghost. Tom was confused, but then realized that they’d all been hit with a bomb– he, the baby and Lizzie had been hit directly. 

She must have thought we were dead… 

“Tom!” she called. He couldn’t hear her voice, but he could read her lips. 

One of the matron girls noticed the screaming baby in the lawn and climbed over the rubble of the brick fence to come and fetch it. When she gathered it in her arms, she looked over at Lizzy and saw that she was miraculously alive. 

“Can you carry her?” the matron girl asked him. 

He read her lips, and gingerly knelt by the skinny girl’s form, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. Her white nightgown was ruined, scorched in so many places it was barely a garment at all. She was breathing peacefully. He limped slowly over to the wall with the matron girl, Lizzy in his arms. 

When they were all together, he placed the girl alongside other children who were passed out, lined along the sidewalk. Mrs. Cole strode over to him, speaking. The ringing in his ears was incessant and he couldn’t hear her. 

She stopped trying to speak to him, and reached over with her sooty apron to wipe the sides of his ears. They must have been bleeding. Then she took his face in her two hands, something that she had never done before. 

At this point in his life, Tom had been surreptitiously experimenting with Legilimency. He knew it wasn’t a normal pursuit for a wizard his age, but he was no normal wizard his age. Muggles, he found, were the best to practice on because they had no concept of Legilimency and often wore their emotions on their minds as plain as day. She stared into his eyes, her dark ones boring into him, urging him to understand. He did. 

Thank you, her mind screamed, Thank you thank you thank you thank you… 

She knew. Somehow, she knew. She knew he was different. She knew he could do things other children couldn’t. She must somehow have known that he was the reason they were all still alive. 

He hadn’t meant the shield to be that effective, but he supposed, his raw skill was great enough that it was possible his shield had extended much further. He had never used the spell before. 

A small lurch in his stomach reminded him that he had done magic outside of school. 

Just then, he felt eyes on him, boring into him, and knew what he would see when he turned around. 

Across the street, in an eye-sore of a puce suit, stood Albus Dumbledore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna make short chapters cause it makes me feel accomplished lmao. also Tom may act like... out of character from the sort of stock villain character he was in the books cause that's boring as shit my guy. gotta spice it up a bit with some self doubt or whatever.


	3. The Catch

It turned out that there was a perfectly circular scorch mark on the yard of the orphanage extending thirty feet in all directions around Tom. The shield hadn’t worked perfectly– he had unintentionally neutralized the blast by injuring himself and all the other children and matrons in small degrees, essentially neutralizing the concentration of the blast so that it mildly scorched them and their surroundings. However, it had worked– none of them were severely harmed and they were all alive. Tom made a note to perfect the spell once he got back to Hogwarts. If he ever got back to Hogwarts… 

He was sitting, perched somewhat uncomfortably, on a crooked chair in the Leaky Cauldron, nursing black tea. Across the table from him, Albus Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes stared at him. 

“So, Tom,” he began in an irritatingly pleasant voice, “I am here to deliver to you your very first warning against underage magic. However… I believe that considering the circumstances, you may want to write to the Ministry and inform them of how many lives you were able to save today. I talked to Mrs. Cole and she seemed to think it was an act of God, so the Obliviators won’t have to be involved...” 

Tom wasn’t going to correct him. He knew that Mrs. Cole somehow knew it was him who had neutralized the blast, and for the first time, he found himself thanking her for her silence and was somewhat amazed that she had had the mental strength to lie to Dumbledore. He’d have to investigate her further, when he was bored the following summer. Perhaps she was a squib? 

He found his mind wandering and re-collected himself. His ears were still ringing painfully and he felt a major headache brewing behind his eyes. Dumbledore was sipping a overwhelmingly pungent tea and gazing benignly at his pupil. 

“Here it is, then,” Dumbledore stated, reaching into his suit pocket and pulling out a letter, which unfolded itself before him. 

"Dear Mr Tom Riddle, 

It has come to the attention of the Improper Use of Magic Office that the ‘Neutroclipus’ spell was performed at your residence at 3:47 AM on July the 23rd, 1940. We would like to remind you that the performance of underage magic directly violates the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic. This is your final warning. Should another incident occur, you will promptly be expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. 

Should you have any inquiries, please contact the Improper Use of Magic Office. 

Hoping you are well,  
Geraldine Gravishaw." 

Tom finished the letter and placed it to the side. 

“Sir,” he asked, addressing Dumbledore with unusual politeness, “Is the Ministry of Magic simply unaware that there are Muggle bombs falling on London every night?” 

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled at him, something they had never done in his presence. 

“Unfortunately, Tom… The Ministry will do anything it can to avoid acknowledging war. This war is not just a Muggle war. The wizard Grindelwald has also begun a wizarding war in Germany, as I am sure you are aware. It is not on British soil, however, so the Ministry–” 

“Pretends it’s not there,” Tom finished for him, rubbing his temples in an uncharacteristic display of his exhaustion. 

“Yes,” Dumbledore said solemnly. They both sat for an indeterminate amount of time before Dumbledore spoke again. 

“Would you wish to return to Hogwarts early this year, Tom?” 

Tom froze, his mind beginning to race. What was Dumbledore playing at? Tom had gotten the distinct impression that Dumbledore had thoroughly disliked him the moment he set eyes upon him, and frankly, the feeling had been mutual. Dumbledore was patronizing and often cold to him. What did he have to gain by suddenly extending this truce, as it were? Even with the bombs falling, he had never offered him a place of safety. It had taken him almost dying for the man to act, in fact. 

Dumbledore must have noticed Tom’s narrowed eyes and stiff posture, for her sat back gently in his chair and sighed. 

“I, too, have been a fool, Tom. I did not think that the Muggle bombs would reach London. We always believe that when tragedy strikes, it will strike elsewhere and to someone else. This is clearly not so, and it was foolish of me to believe it was.” 

Tom stared at Dumbledore unabashedly, trying to read his meaning. 

“There are other Muggleborn children who live in London, and as citizens under the Ministry of Magic, they and their families are being offered places of refuge outside of the city. The Ministry has unfortunately put in place a policy of non-interference with regards to the Muggle inhabitants… However, you and a few others are a special case in that you have no family to go to outside of the city, and would have no one to live with should you do so. The Ministry has therefore ruled that should students such as yourself wish it, you may return to Hogwarts a month early in order to be kept safe.” 

Tom felt off-kilter. Firstly, he was being offered the thing which he had nearly begged from Dumbledore the first time that he had had to go home for the summer– and the man who had denied it was now offering it to him. He was also shocked there were students who were like himself– orphans, unattached, who would be at the castle as well. Tom unintentionally bit his lip. He wanted so very badly to be at Hogwarts, but he felt as though there were some catch or some fine print attached to this offer. 

“What’s the catch?” he asked emotionlessly, staring Dumbledore in the eyes. 

Dumbledore smiled slightly. 

“You’re very defensive, Tom… However, yes. There is, as you say it, a ‘catch’. Not a brutal one– it is simply that you cannot do magic until the school year begins, no different than any other student this summer.” 

Tom thought for a moment. That wasn’t terribly bad. It also wasn’t as though the other students were allowed to do magic while he was denied. He would be at Hogwarts, at the very least, and he would be able to fully use the library and the other things the castle had to offer. Just because he couldn’t perform magic didn’t mean he couldn’t continue to study it. At the orphanage, he couldn’t even do that. 

“Yes,” he said, after a few moments, “I would like to go to Hogwarts.” 

Dumbledore raised his eyebrow. 

“Please,” Tom tacked on hastily. He despised having to suck up to Dumbledore, of all people, but he couldn’t quite contain his desire to be at the place he loved the most. If that meant pretending to be polite to the quirky professor, he would do it. 

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly at him, and waved his long, elegant wand. Tom felt the ringing in his ears lessen and then subside, and watched as the soot, grime and blood on his body and clothes ebb away and then vanish. 

“Good, then. Let us retrieve your things!”


	4. A Pack of Woodbines

The orphanage, quite frankly, was a mess. Half of it had been destroyed in the blast, bits of rubble and tile and plaster flown haphazardly about. Tom was surprised to see Muggle reporters gathered around the circular scorch mark, where Mrs. Cole stood near the broken brick fence. He overheard her talking, telling the story of what had happened. 

“God was with us last night,” she said fervently, clutching the silver cross about her neck, “He protected us. There was no way we would have survived.” 

Tom blinked at her, and then noticed Dumbledore had pulled open the door, crooked on its hinges, and was waiting patiently for him to enter. Tom stepped forward passed his teacher into the foyer. It had been damaged less than the rest of the building by the attack, and the children had congregated here, shifting dust and dirt around, some of the older children helping to clear away loose bits of rubble. 

As he walked forwards, he heard a scampering of bare feet and then a skinny pair of arms wrapped themselves around his legs. He stopped dead and looked down at the top of a frizzy brown head, recognizing the girl. Lizzy. 

She didn’t say anything. He noticed her ears were caked with dried blood. Maybe she still couldn’t hear. She eventually extracted herself from him and stepped back, noticing Dumbledore for the first time. She stared wide-eyed at his violently coloured clothing. Dumbledore smiled kindly at her, waving. The girl looked from Dumbledore to Tom in a mixture of confusion and wonder. 

“I’m leaving for school early,” he told her bluntly. 

She furrowed her brow, reading his lips, before nodding. 

Tom stood staring at the dirty, exhausted children around him and was at a loss for words. He was not one to comfort, and he didn’t entirely want to comfort these pathetic waifs… But he had been one of them once. He understood. He decided instead to touch the little girl he had saved on the head for a moment before briskly walking off up the dusty staircase. Dumbledore followed leisurely behind him. 

When they arrived at his room, he wasn’t entirely surprised to find the window shattered and the wardrobe which had contained his truck fallen to the ground. The trunk itself had been thrown out, but was still locked tight. He righted it, then maneuvered carefully to his bed, searching under it for his boots. Once out of the room, he switched the soft-soled shoes Dumbledore had conjured him for these shoes. They were boots a Canadian soldier on leave had traded him for two packs of Woodbines last year. They had been two sizes too big back then, but he had grown nearly a foot in the meantime. They were still a little loose, but they were much sturdier than most of his other shoes, even the ones at Hogwarts. Once they were on his feet, trunk handle in his hand, he gazed up at the Transfiguration Professor who was watching him interestedly, as though he were a rare species of bird. 

“What?” he asked bluntly, irritated. He had already agreed to go to Hogwarts. He could likely afford a few rude jabs, particularly while standing amongst the glory of his pathetic, poverty-stricken, bomb-destroyed home. 

“Army boots?” the professor asked him, amused. 

“Traded some cigarettes with a Canadian soldier for them,” he continued tonelessly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. He started down the stairs, leaving Dumbledore behind. 

“Oh really?” Dumbledore continued conversationally, a couple steps behind him, “A Canadian?” 

Ahead of his professor, Tom really did roll his eyes this time. Now the professor seemed to think they were friends or something equally foolish. It struck Tom, as he strode through the foyer past the dirty children, that the professor may have been feeling a little guilty. The thought made Tom smirk. Served him right, the senile asshole. 

“You’re not that good of an Occlumens yet, Mr. Riddle,” Dumbledore commented lightly, somehow now directly behind him. 

Tom stiffened and continued down the path.


	5. The Escape

It turned out that, for the rest of the summer, Tom was to be under the care of Dumbledore. The other orphaned children were also assigned a professor to be their primary caregiver. It was unconventional, but it did ensure that there was an adult assigned to every magical youth. Tom met the others when he and Dumbledore checked into their rooms at the Leaky Cauldron. Apparently some of the professors and Ministry officials had been having a difficult time locating a few of the other children, and so they enlisted the professors who had found their wards to help in locating them. Due to her age, Professor Merrythought had volunteered to stay behind, and was dozing quietly against the seat at the end of the table while they entertained themselves.

One of the students had been assigned to Professor Merrythought. She was a Black girl with piercing dark eyes. She was a Ravenclaw in her third year. The others were two blonde, brawny twin boys who were Gryffindor fifth years and one was a tiny redhead in her first year, a Hufflepuff. The Hufflepuff girl was extremely shy, and her face was always bright red. She rarely spoke. The Gryffindor boys seemed to take her under their wing. They were loud and boisterous and somewhat rude. Tom could relate. Orphanages did that to boys. The Black girl was quiet and shrewd. Out of their small ragtag group, he liked her the best. She was very intelligent and was interested in the things Tom would read when they were forced to spend time together in the pub. He learned her name was Helen Montague, and that she’d never known her family. She lived in an orphanage outside of London and was the only Black girl there. 

“I knew I was special but they thought I was the devil,” she said, one afternoon while they all sat at a table in the pub, waiting for their guardians to return. Tom liked that she said things bluntly. Beside her, the little Hufflepuff girl was playing Exploding Snap with the twin boys, jumping in fear every time the cards popped. “The Matron always tried beating the devil out of me, before I came to Hogwarts,” Helen continued, “She was awful. I hated her. They replaced her when she died, but now they treat me even stranger than before. They ignore me, I think.” 

Tom looked at her. She was an extremely intense person. She stared directly into his eyes when she spoke. Some people might have thought that was rude, but Tom appreciated it. He thought she would have made an excellent Legilimens. 

“The Matron of my orphanage never tried to beat me, thankfully,” he shared, feeling strange but continuing anyway, “But she doesn’t trust me. I think she knew it was me who deflected the bomb that hit us, though.” 

Helen nodded, and went back to her book. Tom was used to this. As someone who had grown up in an orphanage, he himself had had to fine tune his social skills to match those of Slytherin house. It had been a brutal first year, figuring out the subtleties, but he had caught on quickly. Someone solitary, like Helen, probably never tried. He looked back down at his book and continued reading. He’d decided, as they weren’t at Hogwarts yet, to purchase the books he’d be needing for his fourth year. He was poring over the textbook for Defence Against the Dark Arts when he noticed the boys putting their coats quietly on and urging the little Hufflepuff to do the same. He looked up and stared. 

“Where are you going?” he asked them. 

They turned around and furrowed their brows, shushing him and jerking their heads to the gently sleeping Professor Merrythought.

“Shh! We’re gonna go out into Diagon Alley.. Mom,” one of them answered rudely in a hissing whisper, “And we’re takin’ Edith with us.” 

Edith, who must have been the little Hufflepuff, flushed scarlet and looked down at her shoes. 

Helen’s intense eyes roved from her book to stare at the Gryffindors. 

“We were told to stay here,” she stated, at regular volume. 

“SHH! Jeez! Yeah, well we’re bored!” hissed one of the twins, “and it’s safe on the wizarding side. This is a Muggle war.” 

Tom remembered what Dumbledore had told him, sitting at this very table, and furrowed his brow. Would Grindelwald ever come to Britain? It was often whispered the Dumbledore was the only wizard strong enough to defeat him… Would Grindelwald come looking for him? 

“You guys comin’?” one of them whispered, already heading for the door. 

Tom looked to Helen, who was calmly gathering her things and putting her green peacoat onto her thin shoulders. Tom shrugged and shut his book. It had been Dumbledore that told them to stay in place, after all, and Tom would never be against disobeying a direct order from him. With one last look back towards Professor Merrythought and the bar keep’s turned back, Tom followed the group out the door.


	6. The Hustle

The tense atmosphere of wartime London was not at all present in Diagon Alley. It was just as crowded as usual, wizards and witches bustling to and fro, signs brightly proclaiming their wares, animals hooting, barking, hollering– all in all, a stark contrast with its Muggle counterpart. Tom followed the group as the twins suspended Edith between them, swaying her to and fro as they made their way towards a new booth that had been set up beside Broomstix. It was called Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour, and a portly wizard with a shining brow and a wide, walrus-like mustache was handing out ice cream cones that looked larger than Tom’s head. 

He heard the twins enthusing about the ice cream and got an idea. 

He looked around him and noticed a gaudily dressed middle aged woman fighting with a shopkeep across the street at the Apothecary about the price of toad’s eyes. Beside her, a tiny wrinkled house-elf was wobbling under the weight of the purchases the witch had already made that day. Tom took note of the witch’s richly embroidered clothes, her expensive purchases, and most importantly– a small purse hanging from the overloaded hands of the house elf. Tom sidled over to them, and purposefully put himself in between a passing man and the elf. He walked forward and allowed the brisk-walking man to bump into him, sending him knocking into the pile of purchases that the elf held. The bundles went flying, and so did the coinpurse– Tom watched it greedily as it flew through the air and landed near a bundle of fine linen a ways away from the witch and her elf. 

He turned to the elderly witch and immediately apologized. He had knocked her to the ground. 

“Madame! I apologize!” he said soothingly, helping her to her feet. She appeared flustered, adjusting her cap as she stood with his help, “I am so very sorry! Let me retrieve your items for you!” 

He deftly moved away to where the linens were strewn and in one fell swoop, picked them up and pocketed the heavy purse. He gathered the other items, gently proffering them onto the elf who folded them with a snap of its fingers. The old woman was arranging her hat and staring at him dotingly. 

“Oh, well… It’s quite alright my dear,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes. Tom stood to his full height, which was convincingly tall for someone who was just fourteen. He took her hand and kissed it, to which she giggled obnoxiously. 

“Oh my, if only all the young men were as kind as you…” she demurred. He bowed to her and said, “I am sorry Madam, but I must continue to my group…” 

He flicked his dark eyes over to the ragtag group of children he was a part of, who (he was pleased to note) were quick witted enough to realize what he was doing and took it upon themselves to look as poor and disheveled as possible. 

The woman looked as though she were going to cry. 

“Ah, such kind, mistreated youth! I will remember you sir!” and she toddled off, her elf wobbling behind her, completely forgetting about the toad’s eyes. 

Tom sauntered over to the group, a smirk growing on his face. Helen grinned at him, her black eyes glinting, the first smile he had ever seen from her. 

“I’m getting an ice cream, I think,” he said, smirking.


	7. The Warning

Sitting in the chairs beside the ice cream stand, the twins dug into their mammoth sized ice creams with gusto, flinging bits of vanilla onto the table. Edith’s face was completely covered in chocolate, but she didn’t seem to be embarrassed this time. Tom was fingering the intricately embroidered purse, lost in thought. He hadn’t bothered to get an ice cream– he didn’t have a sweet tooth. He was thinking. 

“I wanna go to Gambol and Japes,” one of the twins said through his ice cream, who he’d learned were named Gerald and Lawrence (Gerry and Larry, respectively), “I need to stock up for Hogwarts.” 

Tom looked over to him. The boy was a year older than him, but shorter and stockier. Tom wouldn’t be surprised if he’d stolen everything he’d ever gotten from the shop. Not that he could really talk: Tom had stolen nearly all of his Hogwarts supplies these last three years. It seemed as though the wizarding world was far too trusting sometimes– With the exception of Gringotts, they often didn’t put anti-theft charms on their items because the population believed they always had anti-theft charms. It was a paradox that Tom had been grateful for when he’d received the paltry funds Hogwarts set aside for those in need. 

“When do you think Professor Merrythought will wake up?” Helen asked. 

Larry rolled his eyes. “She’ll probably pass away in that chair. Come on! Just one more shop and then we’ll go back.” 

The joke shop was conveniently directly beside Flourish & Blotts, and Tom separated from the group to enter the bookshop with Helen walking smoothly behind him. She immediately walked up the stairs towards the Transfiguration section, pulling a book from the shelf and poring over it. Tom watched her go, looking towards a crowd which had gathered on the main floor of the shop. They were huddled around a wizard, a British Auror, he realized, who was clearly giving a speech. 

Tom walked forward, listening. 

“–told them a hundred times. Us Auror’s on the mainland, we see things. The situation in Europe is going downhill, and fast. The Muggles are being crushed by Hitler’s forces, and the Wizarding governments are being eviscerated by Grindelwald’s forces. He has joined the Muggles– violated the Statute of Secrecy– and Hitler knows about us. And Grindelwald is using his power to trap and kill Muggleborns and half-bloods!” 

The crowd murmured. Tom had always noticed, seemingly like a lot of things, that the British Ministry of Magic was very blase when it came to its non-pureblood denizens. In Slytherin, Tom had very quickly learned about blood purity and its importance in wizarding society. He also knew that as a Muggleborn, he was nothing. Every time he walked into the Slytherin common room and saw his peers he burned. He wanted to be them. He wanted to control them– Be better than they were. He wanted them to cower in fear beneath him, to worship him.

Then he heard a curious noise– Something that seemed very out of place in Diagon Alley. 

The scream of a falling bomb.


	8. The Disquiet

For the second time that week, Tom threw himself to the ground as the bomb collided with the cobblestone street. Witches and wizards threw up shields, their brightly coloured lights popping and clicking all around the bomb as it exploded. Tom watched between his arms as the windows in the bookshop bowed comically, impossibly, inward before bouncing back into place like rubber. Outside people ran and screamed. Books toppled off the shelves from the impact, showering the patrons of the shop in loose and singed papers. 

Tom quickly scrambled to his feet as Helen came bounding down the stairs, her light brown wand raised and her eyes glinting. 

The Auror who had been speaking stepped through the frightened crowd and brushed past them, calling for backup as he passed using a brilliantly illuminated Patronus charm which glowed and then disappeared. Tom strode out of the shop, eyeing the giant singed crater in the cobblestones. None of the buildings had received any damage– they all likely had generations of protective charms placed upon them but the street itself was not. Tom and Helen met the twins and Edith outside, who was crying hysterically. 

“Let’s go back to the Leaky Cauldron,” he commanded them. They broke no argument and followed his retreating back towards the pub. 

When they walked in, the pub was so crowded they could barely move. People in the streets had fled into the bar to escape the Alley, but were caught in place as the Ministry blocked the exit into Muggle London. He could see the ancient face of Professor Merrythought scanning the crowd, gazing desperately for them. Tom pushed through the crowd and met her, the others following close behind. 

“Oh! You’re all safe!” she exclaimed gratefully. 

Beside her, Tom felt eyes boring harshly into his skin, and turned to see Dumbledore gazing at him, frowning deeply. 

“I am disappointed in all of you,” he stated solemnly. His eyes never left Tom’s face. 

Tom felt angry. It hadn’t been his idea that they left the pub. He just went after them. Even then, however, he knew that was a weak excuse. Dumbledore had talked with him frankly about the true situation of the war, and since when had Tom Riddle been a follower of others? He didn’t feel contrite, but he felt foolish for his brash confidence. It wouldn’t happen again. 

“I understand that this situation was not ideal, but it is dangerous. Please never betray my trust again,” Dumbledore continued. 

Tom clenched his jaw. He’d never had Dumbledore’s trust in the first place. What did it matter now? 

“We are leaving,” he said, finally, his tone bereft of emotion. He took a plate from the table behind him, waving his wand muttering ‘Portus’. It glowed and then faded. A portkey. 

“Children, hold onto this. It will take you to the Hogwarts gate.” 

They did as they were told. The stifling, panicked crowd in the pub tore away from them as they spun into space and time.


	9. The Omen

Headmaster Dippet had been there to greet them at the gate, and to Tom’s chagrin, to lecture them on the dangers of disobeying orders from their Professors. Tom clenched his jaw and followed behind the headmaster, marching along stiffly towards the black horseless carriage that had been provided. 

Only this time, there was something pulling it. Tom stopped and blinked at the reptilian, winged creature that stamped its hooved feet on the path impatiently. Thestral. Of course. The image of the infant in the crib, glass shards slicing its skin, entered unbidden into his mind. I’ve seen death. Tom suddenly felt cold, and swallowed hard. It was not the death of the baby which disturbed him, but how easy it had been for the baby to die. A window broke and now that life was extinguished. The tall trees of the forest surrounding the the Hogwarts gate seemed to be looming down on him. Broken glass was all it took for life to be extinguished forever. In the loamy wood he smelt ash. Did the woods always smell of ash? 

A hand touched his arm and he blinked. The rest of the group were already in he carriage. Helen was standing beside him, staring into him with her impossibly intense eyes. After a moment, she turned and got into the carriage where he could hear the nasal tones of Dippet still lecturing them on respect for their elders. Tom, feeling a bead of cold sweat run down his back, climbed into the seat.


	10. The Message

Two weeks had passed since their arrival to Hogwarts, and Tom found himself increasingly interested in exploring the castle and the grounds. Throughout the school year, he was prevented from being able to fully investigate the area due to classes, but now he was free to do as he wished. He was exploring a hidden passageway along the East wing which looped towards the cliffside bordering the Black Lake when he saw a flutter of white out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, he couldn’t see anything, but he had a sneaking suspicion something was there. 

He slowly crept to the end of the passageway and came face to face with a ghost he’d rarely seen about the castle. He knew she was the Ravenclaw ghost– Rumoured to be Rowena Ravenclaw’s daughter. She seemed horrified at being discovered, and floated quickly away from him. She was halfway through the wall when he called to her. 

“Stop! I’m sorry!” 

He felt desperate to speak to her. None of the other ghosts would talk of their deaths, at least not in any great detail. Sir Nicholas only grieved his mishandled execution, the Fat Friar joked that he was still drunk and the Bloody Baron refused to speak as a rule of thumb. Peeves… Was Peeves. The Grey Lady was the only ghost he had not spoken to, trying to glean some understanding of what it felt like to die. After the bombs, he felt a burning desire to understand the sensation. He didn’t speak to anyone of this, he knew they’d think he was completely crazy, but he just had to know. 

She stopped, and turned to him. Her eyes were wide and sorrowful. 

“What do you want?” she asked, her ethereal voice seeming to waft in from the very air around him. 

“I just… I need… I have to talk to you,” Tom stuttered, flushing. He had meant to win her over, not blubber at her. At least they were alone. 

Her expression changed, turning from fearful to aloof. 

“You’ve seen someone die,” she said tonelessly. 

“I’m sorry. You probably have students coming to you all the time when they witness death… I’ll leave you alone,” he told her, turning around and willing his voice to sound despondent. 

“No… Ask your questions,” she said, sounding wistful and resigned. Tom, his face turned away from her, smirked. He schooled his expression into one of confusion and sadness and turned to her. 

“I just… Is it painful? To die?” 

“It depends… The moments before death are often painful. The moment of death is not,” she whispered, seeming to look passed him through time. 

She forestalled his next question. 

“I became a ghost because I grieved. Do not have regrets– Don’t hold onto the world– Let it go. That is how you die,” her voice seemed a distant whisper. Her silvery form seemed to be fading into nothing. 

Tom stood silently, watching her as she disappeared. 

Her voice whispered, bodiless, into his ear; “Death is not for you, child. Go.” 

Then she was gone.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for checking this out, yer a real pal! feel free to drop a comment, its always cool to hear from people. :)


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